


dance, devil

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, Prompt Fic, Sparring, Tumblr Prompt, i just like writing about these two i don't know what it is about them, mentions of manipulation, more vague discussion about asya don't y'all LOVE HER YET
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 00:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17033104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: "Why she didn't kill him is anyone's guess. She isn't fond of him, not in the way that makes people act so foolishly, but there is this burgeoning kinship, this sliver of mercy that proves her better than them, some elitism that keeps her from tilting wholesale over the edge. Into that murky darkness that divides her from Jacob Seed."





	dance, devil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lowtides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowtides/gifts).



> hmu if you see any glaring errors, I'm hopped up on bean juice. Haven't decided if I'm moving to Pillowfort, but I'll still be here, so there's that!
> 
> This one's another prompt, this time from lowtides! The sentence prompt was "well, fine, just this once". I had fun with it, thanks!

They don't mince words. Typically. Usually.

Asya leans in, elbows close to her sides, a quick jab to his chin that he only barely dodges. Doesn't stop to taunt, though "old man" flits on the edges of her lips, makes her grim-set mouth tilt upwards only briefly in hackneyed amusement. His response is more movement than spoken, fists coming back in retaliation, balled hands so akin to hammers. What he lacks in speed, he more than makes up for in power; Asya is not entirely the opposite, but she _is_ faster than him. It's the only reason she's made it to the here and now, to where they're able to spar without maiming or aiming to kill.

She hop, steps back, one foot behind the other, a sinuous movement she picked up from Joey before this whole shit with Eden's Gate went down. Now both Hudson and Okoro are a bit more broken, a bit more ragged at the edges, but still alive. Alive and eager to bite back at what's gnawed at them.

Pratt's recovering; whatever the beast in front of Asya's done to him is irredeemable, even if he pretties it up with platitudes and wartime fallacies. Mostly, nowadays, he cocks his brow at her abuse of him, holds his hands out as if to allow her fury, as if he's bestowed it upon her, gracious as ever. Remembering Pratt's midnight mutterings of Jacob's own sermons makes her swivel-tilt-jab harder than she intended.

Why she didn't kill him is anyone's guess. She isn't fond of him, not in the way that makes people act so foolishly, but there is this burgeoning kinship, this sliver of mercy that proves her better than them, some elitism that keeps her from tilting wholesale over the edge. Into that murky darkness that divides her from Jacob Seed.

(Once, she told him, she may not have killed him, but she will put a knife under the softness of Joseph Seed's chin and _dig in deep_. He gripped her arm, pulled her close, told her he would do the same to Frey, to _not test his clemency_.)

And why he decided (yes, she surmises, it's entirely his decision; she'd made hers long ago) that bending her mind and attempting to kill her is the perfect setup to whatever careful "friendship" they share is--again--anyone's guess. Perhaps he saw something more than haunting in the baggy depths of her sleep-deprived eyes.

She's slept a bit better as of late. Still wakes up sharing nightmares with Pratt, shaky hands counting all the weapons around her before she's able to remember that _he can't touch them there_. It's when night terrors morph to fantasy that she seeks the soldier out, if only to remember the creature she could so easily become, that only her father's ghost and the memory of him keep away.

They usually end up fighting, as they are now. The first time, he took in her windblown appearance, the pallor of her features, the shaky fingers wrapped, bandaged, and sighed. He stood, beckoned her forth, and promised: _"Well, fine, just this once."_

"Just this once" had shifted into Asya facing her personal monster, a solid amalgamation of her fears, the one beast not a concept or borne of her mind she could put knuckles against and _fight_.

Father forgive her, but it felt _good_ to fight.

Jacob jolts her from her reverie with a shoulder-check, knocks her nearly off-balance. Easily remedied; Asya shifts her feet, classic boxer's stance, though she hasn't used proper technique in a while and a half. After dealing with the doomsday cult for nearly a year (Or has it been longer? _Only You_ has left unpleasant gaps in her memory that ache when she considers them), "proper" technique feels silly, feels ridiculous. Nothing taught in kickboxing classes compares to the rush of fear and adrenaline that mix potently when a Peggie's up close in her face and she can't dig for arrows, for her shotgun. She jabs them with the same fist that just missed Jacob, buys herself enough time to dig out one of her many, many knives.

So this is her life now.

"You came here, Deputy." Open palm to her solar plexus, knocks the wind out her. "You pay attention or I send you back."

He gives her a moment to catch her breath, doubled over with locks of dreads falling into her vision, escaping that bun that only appears to be effortlessly messy. No time is spared when she wraps them twice, triple around the remainder of her bun, tuck the spare locks into the knot.

"You're right," is her simple response, throaty with spent energy. Deputy Okoro stands straight once more, launches herself at him.

In the morning--hell, even five minutes from now--she'll have more reasons to hate him, more reasons to wish she hadn't lowered her gun from his forehead, more reasons to wish she never felt the truth of the purposelessness in his eyes. 

But now is not morning. And these things are best kept under the cover of night.


End file.
